


Armistice

by civilsmile



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 09:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilsmile/pseuds/civilsmile
Summary: The Asset is compliant, but the arm is not.





	Armistice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefilthiestpiglet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefilthiestpiglet/gifts).



> Written for a [prompt](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=5146847#cmt5146847) at the hydratrashmeme:
> 
> The Asset is compliant, but the arm is not.
> 
>   * The Asset is able to hold completely still and remain silent through the worst stuff, but the arm just keeps whirring and shifting.
>   * When they try to fuck the Asset when he's half-awake or passed out, the arm attacks them. (Basically the only reason it doesn't when the Asset is awake is because the Asset is expending a lot of mental energy holding the arm in place.)
>   * Post-TWS, the arm being super defensive of Bucky's sleep, until eventually Bucky's recovered enough that the arm stays in place when Steve or Sam or Nat or Tony lays down in bed next to him.
> 


Bucky Barnes loved people with a reckless ease that was half his own uncorrupted nature, Sam thought, and half the fawning instinct of a beaten dog: touch him without violence, offer a kind word, and he was your friend. The arm was a different story, though. The arm was a suspicious bastard.

It wasn't the bruised ribs or bloody nose that made Sam agree to the handcuffs. He knew better than to fall asleep at Bucky's side; it was why they had separate bedrooms, why he woke most nights to Bucky's screaming nightmares down the hall and did nothing to help or comfort him. It wasn't Bucky's frantic, horrified apologies, or the stupid way Sam flinched when Bucky reached for him to check the damage, or the look on Bucky's face when Sam shied away from his hands. It wasn't even the stifled noises from the bathroom later that night, where Sam found Bucky huddled on the floor, shaking uncontrollably, awaiting punishment. He hated seeing Bucky afraid of him, but it happened; he knew how to tell his lover he wasn't in trouble, Sam wasn't going to hit him, without nausea roiling his gut. No: it was the depth of disgust in Bucky's voice as he cut across Sam's reassurances. "This is fucking sick," Bucky said. He was pale, and trembling with fear, and Sam had never heard him sound so angry. "I _hurt_ you, and now you have to be the c- _calm_ one? Talking me down, telling me it's okay? This is _bullshit_."

"It's not your fault," Sam said.

"Yes it is," Bucky snapped, his teeth chattering. "Yes it _is_. I punched you in the fucking _face_. When do we deal with that? We don't, because I'm such a fucking mess, you're always taking c- _care_ of me."

"Okay," Sam said. He stood up from his crouch by the doorway and took two steps across the little room to where Bucky cowered against the wall. The robot arm whirred and shifted at his approach, longing to defend against violence, and despite himself Sam felt his heartbeat quicken. There was nothing to be frightened of, not while Bucky was awake, but Sam's ribs ached with every move. 

Bucky made a low, panicked sound when Sam sat down beside him. From shoulder to fingertips, the plates of his arm flared, rippling quick and sinister as a snake. Sam put a gentle hand on the gleaming metal. "We're on the same side, pal," he told it. The arm twitched under his touch, and Sam knew the energy Bucky was expending to hold it still. Whatever Sam did now, whatever Bucky thought he had coming, he wouldn't let the arm protect him. Not as long as he was conscious. "I want to look after him too." 

Unwillingly, Bucky let out a breath of laughter. "You're such a dork." 

"Mm-hm," Sam said. He wasn't the only brave one: after a moment, Bucky leaned over to rest his head on Sam's shoulder. 

"I'm sorry I hit you," Bucky said. "I didn't mean to." 

"I know," Sam said. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have fallen asleep with you. We have two rooms for a reason."

"Well, it's tough," Bucky said. "I'm an amazing lay. Better men than you have passed out on top of me."

"I did _not_ —" Sam said, and cut himself off as he felt Bucky's grin against his t-shirt. "We were _cuddling_." 

Bucky sighed. "I liked it. Anyway, I'm the one who shouldn't have fallen asleep. Awake, I can control it, but when I drift off…" He pressed closer into Sam's side, trusting; keeping his movements slow, Sam settled an arm around his shoulders. "Do you think—I know you said it creeps you out, but—" Ah, so they were back to this. "If I slept with a cuff, we could share the bed. It'd be safe."

"I don't want to tie you up," Sam said.

"I know," Bucky said. "But _I_ want—" Sam felt him tense, aware that he was arguing. They waited it out together, side by side. "I have bad dreams," Bucky said at last, softly. "The arm might not like you near me in my sleep, but I think—I don't know. It might help." 

Sam tightened his grip reflexively, as if he weren't years—decades—too late to shield Bucky from anything. "Really? You want to wake up restrained, with someone touching you?"

Bucky shivered, and Sam kissed his hair in apology. "Not someone," Bucky said. "You."

* * *

The thick metal cuffs looked wrong on Bucky's mobile, opinionated arm, pinning it down to the reinforced frame of the bed. Or rather, they looked _right_. They looked made for him.

"Are those—" Sam said, and forced himself to swallow back the slimy feeling in his chest. "Where did you get those."

"Stark," Bucky said. "He says congratulations on the kinky sex."

"Oh my god," Sam said. But that was better. "Okay, then." 

"Yeah?" Bucky said. 

"Yeah," Sam said, and climbed into bed beside him.

* * *

It made his skin crawl, watching Bucky struggle to get free. On their own, Sam thought, the nightmares were heartbreaking; with the restraints, they were obscene. The first night, Sam had shaken him awake, or tried to, the arm jerking at his touch like an animal caught in a trap. Bucky had stared through him, wide-eyed in the dark, seeing only one more of his torturers. Sam would give a lot to forget the things Bucky said to him then.

Now they carried on their separate, one-sided conversations. "Wait," Bucky said, twisting helplessly against the sheets. "Wait, please, I'm sorry—" His cry made Sam want to curl up and cover his ears. Instead, he murmured nonsense, willing some part of Bucky to hear and know a friend was with him. He had nothing true to tell his lover, at the bottom of the night: _you're safe_ was a mockery when Bucky's dreaming mind was trapped in hell. But the arm was awake and twitching, outraged at Sam's nearness, and it was easier to talk to.

"I'm glad you were there," Sam told it. "I know you couldn't always protect him, he wouldn't let you, but you took care of him the best you could. You never let those assholes near him, not if you could help it." Bucky moaned in the grip of nightmare, a desperate and incoherent plea. Sam couldn't bear to touch him, afraid of how the dream might twist his hands on Bucky's skin. He stroked the arm instead, feeling it quiver with animosity. "I know you don't trust me, but I love him too." 

The plates shifted, a sinuous roll of thwarted power, like it was trying to shrug him off. Sam pet apologetically over the ugly insult of the cuff, down to the fine joints at the back of the wrist. "Sorry about this," he said. "I know you hate it, having me here when he can't defend himself. But he didn't want to be alone."

* * *

With time, Sam found that his soft rambling could ease Bucky back toward painless sleep, the nightmares opening their claws and flapping off into the dark. He talked to the arm like an ally, and felt it hum and shiver under his hand. He grew used to sleeping at Bucky's side.

It would be unfair to say that they got careless, but accidents happen, and one night Sam woke up feeling warm and sated in every limb, only to freeze as the realization hit: he hadn't exactly passed out on top of Bucky, but there'd been sex, and there'd been snuggling, and no one had secured the cuffs. His back prickled with cold sweat where Bucky lay pressed against him. The smallest sound or movement, he knew, would bring the arm lashing to Bucky's defense. And even if he kept still, even if he kept silent, surely it would sense his alertness, the changes in his breath and heartbeat that signaled a conscious intruding presence. As if on cue, he heard it whir, the plates shuffling like a blind creature scenting the air. _Oh shit_ , Sam thought. _This is going to hurt._

He flinched as Bucky shifted in his sleep, a sound of fear escaping his clenched throat. Here it was: payback for all the nights chained down and helpless, taunted by Sam's voice and hands. Then the arm curled gently around him, tugging him closer against Bucky's solid warmth. It made soft noises to itself, settling its plates, getting comfortable. 

Slowly, Sam felt the tension in his body relax. "Okay, then," he said, equally quiet, neither one of them wanting to disturb Bucky's dreamless rest. "Truce."


End file.
